A bun in the oven
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Darren Mitchell learns something about male adepts he hadn't thought possible in his wildest dreams. Nothing explicit, but please beware if you can't stomach mpreg. Set in the 'Sleeping Beauty' verse.


**A bun in the oven  
**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

A/N: I love Blackdragonsghost's wonderful story 'Unexpected Blessings' to pieces. As almost all her other works, for that matter. There's no chance in hell that I could ever write anything like it. Anyway, for those of you remembering the plot, I've always imagined that Gerald would have been the one to beat around the bush, lecturing on the intricacies of adeptitude and so on and so forth at full length instead of coming right out until a rather unnerved Karril blurts out the truth. The idea just wouldn't leave me alone for all those years, and so I finally relented and penned down my own version. It goes without saying that I didn't just copy my dear fellow author (well, the basics are naturally the same). To avoid any _misunderstandings_ , I set my fic in the 'Sleeping Beauty' verse, something I've been wanting to return to for quite a while now.

A/N: I know that the title isn't very sophisticated, but I miserably failed at finding a better one. Sorry!

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Ravenous after ten hours of repairing damaged cardiac valves and performing coronary artery bypass grafts, Darren Mitchell decided to drop by his favourite pastry shop in order to grab one or two of his beloved buns with nustrawberry jam filling and a decent coffee on his way home. Nobody was waiting for him, anyway. Pete had called in sick early in the morning and Gerald was still bustling about across Novatlantis, pushing his latest monograph about the Dark Ages on Erna. He missed the man like a lost limb and counted the days till his return, but had known better than to argue about the business trip. Sitting around and idly twiddling his thumbs simply wasn't his lover's style.

The 'Pastry Heaven' was rather empty, not altogether surprising for a Wednesday afternoon. Otherwise, he might have overlooked the three patrons occupying a table at the far corner of the room.

Mitchell frowned. For someone supposed to be in bed with a nasty stomach bug, hanging around in a confectionery shop was a little bit strange, to put it mildly, but it was the sight of the man sitting across Anderson that made his stomach lurch in shock. What the hell was Gerald doing here? His flight had been scheduled for Friday, right after his last reading. And of course that inevitable Iezu was glued to his side like a Siamese twin.

He basically had nothing against Karril. Still a hedonist at its finest and utterly unburdened by trifles like tact and a sense of shame, the half alien could be great fun to be around. But lately he had gotten into the annoying habit of hovering over Tarrant like a flustered mother hen, literally appearing out of nowhere several times a day at the most inopportune moments. There might be nothing more sinister behind it than a bad case of exaggerated devotedness, but that Gerald hadn't deigned to brief him on his premature return but had chosen to meet their friends first - it didn't sit well with him, didn't sit well with him at all.

Darren called himself to order. Whatever the reasons for his behaviour, the man would lay in his arms tonight, and that was all that mattered. His mood brightening at the thought, he crossed the distance in a few long strides and placed a hand on a silk clad shoulder. "Surprise surprise, folks! May I join you for a coffee and a sweet bun?"

When two dark and one light brown head shot up and turned towards him. Mitchell blinked in confusion. He had expected to encounter joy and that special smile Gerald reserved only for him, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

Pete's chubby face was the very picture of embarrassment and Karril fixed him with a stare that could have frozen a hot spring in midsummer. God knew what was bugging him. Tarrant, on the other hand - giving him the once-over, Darren felt a trickle of fear running down his spine. His skin having a sickly pallor and dark shadows circling his eyes like bruises, he seemed to be in pretty bad shape. Even his usually perfectly coiffed hair hung in lank, untidy strands around his shoulders. But it was the expression of something bordering on naked panic in those molten pools of silver that told Darren that something was seriously amiss. "Gerald, what the hell is wrong with you?" he blurted out. "Are you sick? You look like shit."

"Thanks for the nice compliment, Mitchell. But although I'm loath to admit it, I've indeed been better. After cancelling my appointments for the rest of the week, I contacted your colleague. He was so kind as to see me today in spite of his tight schedule. I'm deeply indebted to him."

"Um, that reminds me of something," Peter chirped a bit too brightly. "I got to leave now. Need a haircut."

"A _haircut_?" Darren looked at him as if his friend had suddenly sprouted wings. "Are you kidding, man? You went to the hairdresser only last week, and God is my witness that he did a thorough job. Let that bloke have a go at you with his scissors again, and you can compete with a baby butt."

Anderson ran his fingers through his short spikes, just to look at them as if he had never seen them before. "Well, yeah, seems that I forgot all about it," he rasped, blushing furiously. "Too much work, you know. The bloody stress. I'd better go home now and rest a bit."

The last word still on his lips, he jumped to his feet and rushed toward the exit as if the Unnamed himself were after him, but stopped dead on the threshold. "Gerald, concerning what we've talked about: If you need... whatever, give me a ring. At any time."

"What the heck was all that about?" Darren asked perplexedly when the door had closed him. "The poor sod seemed to be quite beside himself. Maybe he should really take some time off. I could stand in for him for a few days and..."

"He's all right," the adept whispered. "Or will be, when he has digested the latest news. And now get yourself a chair. We have to talk, and I'd rather you sat down first."

A weird sense of foreboding twisting his stomach into a tight knot, Darren flopped down onto his behind and cast his lover an inquisitive glance. "So what's up, dear? You aren't seriously ill, are you?"

"You needn't get in a lather. Dropping dead isn't on my agenda for the foreseeable future. But there's something you should know. About my kind and certain... peculiarities."

" _Peculiarities_? What the hell are you talking about? Whatever you were once, you aren't that much different from any Tom, Dick or Harry now."

"Yes and no," Tarrant said quietly. "I'm human, but although I can't Work anymore unless sacrificing my life for it, I'm still far from being an ordinary mortal. You'd better keep that in mind."

As if he could ever forget. _'The Last of the True Adepts_ ' Marc Telcazar had titled his unofficial biography on Tarrant, and rightly so. Fewer and fewer of that already rare breed had been born since the taming of the fae, and if this went on, there would be no one left in a generation or two. Even now, Gerald was the only one still alive who couldn't just See, but had experienced the unique thrill of being able to bend the world to his will with no more than a fleeting thought. He had been among the first - and maybe the most powerful of his kind who had ever walked their fickle planet - in times long gone from living memory, and now it was very well possible that he would be one of the last, just as that money-grubbing hack had suggested. It was sad somehow, but it couldn't be helped.

"I know what you are," Darren muttered after a while. "God is my witness that you use the remnants of the link you had with my alter ego Vryce to your full advantage when we... never mind," he cut himself short with a side glance at Karril. "But I've no idea what you're driving at."

The former Hunter sighed softly. "This was to be expected. Born in a time when sorcery is nothing but a distant memory, a source of inspiration for fantasy movies and novels, you can't possibly understand what it entailed. The power that came with it. The... possibilities. Every adept was capable of slowing down the ageing process, but there was more to it. When rescuing me from the fire of the earth the Master of Lema had trapped me in, Vryce considered cutting off my hands and feet, knowing full well that I could have grown them back at my leisure."

"Holy shit! You aren't planning on doing something stupid, like risking your hide in order to help yourself to a second cock, are you?" Darren blurted out.

Tarrant cast him a withering glare. "Although it's rarely used in our bedroom, my penis is in perfect working order. There's no need for an addition."

"Dear Mother of my kind, would you mind coming to the point, Gerald?" Karril chimed in, a trace of exasperation clearly audible in his deep voice. "If you can't bring yourself to spill the beans, let me do it for you. Talking about your favourite pastries, it may be hard to believe, Darren, but he's got..."

"Karril?"

It was but a single word, but the Iezu closed his mouth and ducked his head. "As I've been trying to say, it was a piece of cake for an adept in my time to subject his or her body to minor physiological modifications," Tarrant went on, his gaze never leaving Karril's face. "Certain abdominal tissues..."

From the corners of his eyes, Darren saw that the former God of Pleasure suddenly held a cigarette in his chubby fingers. Before he could tell him that smoking was strictly out of bounds in a place serving food, Karril inhaled deeply and blew the pungent stuff right into Gerald's face. The effect was pretty spectacular. Turning an alarming shade of green, the adept jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the facilities, his right hand pressed against his mouth.

"A bun in the oven, as you humans are wont to say." Karril finished his sentence at long last. "I knew that I would have to break the news in the end. We could have achieved the very same result without beating around the bush for half an hour."

Darren spat a mouthful of coffee over the table. "Your pulling my leg, right?" he grated out when he could finally get some air into his lungs. "I don't know much about Iezu humour, but if this is supposed to be a joke, I fail to see the punchline."

"As matters stand, I'm not in the mood for joking. Gerald has been sick like a dog for the last days, and I don't like seeing a friend suffering."

"But that's outright impossible! Blokes can't get pregnant."

"He can. And he is."

"Are... are you sure?" Darren spluttered. "It could be a mistake. Pete is a heart surgeon, not a gynaecologist. Or whatever."

"I am sure. Your friend ran all the tests. Thrice. The result was always the same. Besides, being what I am, I realized that Gerald had conceived about two weeks ago, but decided to keep quiet about it for a while. Call it a rare fit of restraint if you like."

A broad grin spread over Mitchell's face. "I still can't wrap my head around it, but I'm going to be a father! Oh God, that's won..."

"You don't understand," Karril cut him short, his brows knitted into a tight frown. "This isn't Gerald's first clash with the family business, if you know what I mean. He almost died during childbirth at the age of seventeen, and the healers strongly advised against tempting fate ever again. You mustn't let nature run its course, Darren, however regrettable terminating his condition may be. Going through that crap once again will kill him."

For about a minute or two, the young heart surgeon just stared at him, completely aghast. Then he wordlessly pushed back his chair and followed his lover on somewhat wobbly legs.

Tarrant was bent over the washbasin, rinsing his mouth. When Darren placed a hand on his shoulder, he straightened and looked him square in the face. "Karril told you," he whispered. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Yes. Please don't get me wrong, but right now, I'm at a loss for words."

"There's no need to get all sentimental, eh? It goes without saying that you are under no obligations whatsoever. Money isn't an object, and..."

"Don't give me that crap, Gerald! What the hell do you take me for? A fair-weather lover who deserts you when the going gets tough? I thought you knew me better than that."

Starting to retch again, the adept was beyond answering. "This is something I could very well do without," he muttered when he could talk again. "A time span of a thousand and five hundred years tends to make you forget about the drawbacks of my condition."

"That bad?"

Tarrant shrugged. "It could be worse. My body will adjust after a while, I suppose."

"It failed you last time."

"That wretched Iezu is much too talkative for his own good," the adept hissed, his eyes narrowed into slits of fury. "He'll answer for betraying my trust. And for making me disgrace myself in public by a hair's breadth, for that matter."

"He's just worried, Gerald. So am I, by the way. I want the baby, I really do, but if I have to choose between you..."

"I'll be fine. We'll both be fine. Whatever Karril said to you, having an abortion isn't an option. I simply won't allow it. But I'm not a fool, Mitchell. All your other wondrous medical achievements are very much welcome, be it screenings, antenatal exercises or an epidural. And in case something goes seriously awry, I could still have a Caesarean section." Registering the miserable expression on his face, Tarrant smiled faintly. "Although I appreciate your concern, you needn't fear for me. I'm in good hands, am I not?"

Still not entirely convinced, Darren pulled him into a tight hug. His feelings for his lover were unlike anything he had ever experienced before, went far beyond mere physical attraction and enjoying the man's company. Gerald was the other half of his soul. Only with him at his side he was whole, and losing him would destroy him utterly.

That train of thought triggered an idea he had never considered before. "Well, as we'll soon be a real family, what do you think about making it official?" he said quietly. "A church wedding is out of the question, but we could get married at the registry office. It would be legal, give you the same rights as a wife."

"I wouldn't put it quite that way," Tarrant breathed, a trace of sardonic amusement in his eyes. "But yes, I'm not altogether adverse to tying the knot with you. As long as you aren't proposing out of a misplaced sense of duty, that is."

"No duty, Gerald. Just affection. You know that I love you, don't you?"

The adept nodded. "As for me, I was drawn to the faint spark of Damien Vryce still alive in you at the beginning of our acquaintance. You, as a person in your own right, were naturally a stranger to me. But things have changed. My feelings for you have changed. I've never been particularly fond of sweet-talk, but I presume that admitting to the sentiment being mutual for once wouldn't hurt."

Darren grinned inwardly. Nothing Tarrant had ever said in his presence came closer to the famous three words. For such an epitome of pride and self-control, he could be amazingly naughty, not to say kinky in bed when he really got going, but declarations of love weren't his cup of tee. Until now. Maybe certain hormonal changes were already affecting him, or he was just relieved as hell that everything had gone over well.

In the end, it didn't matter. The first thing in the morning, he'd pay a visit to the registry office and call the banns. The Church Gerald had saved from sinking into oblivion at the end of the dark ages opposed same sex marriages, but if he was lucky, old Father Malone who had baptized him more than three decades ago would agree on holding a private blessing ceremony for them. He himself wasn't much of a regular church goer, but still being a deeply religious man in his own way, Gerald would appreciate the gesture for sure. Forever bonded in the eyes of God and the world, they could then prepare for the baby's arrival, heading for that unknown shore hand in hand. Life was full of sweet promises, indeed.


End file.
